Hamish Holmes
by PixieKindOfCrazy
Summary: John never thought his name suggestion would ever be used. He couldn't even concieve it, "Look at his face, Watson." John's eyes flew to the baby.


**A/n: **_The idea of this one shot was from a drabble on tumblr that I really liked and the writing style is inspired by FrancescaWayland. Please check her out._

**Disclaimer: **_I own nothing. _

"Sherlock," John's voice rang Sherlock's ears like that resounding aftershock of a church bell, existent but not truly _heard. _

The greater part of his attention was focused on the mysterious-but familiar to him-woman with a baby on her hip. A baby whose face had burned itself into Sherlock's memory the very second he saw it: Starkly dark curls, even as an infant, and hauntingly blue eyes, the exact color that surrounded Sherlock's now-very-wide pupils.

"Sherlock," The Woman said his name with a distinctly different tone; one that indicated uncharacteristic worry and familiar pride. Although, the latter was most likely forced.

He shook his head, "Don't," his best friend was shocked to hear the masked hurt in his voice and the deep extent of it almost made John gape, "I don't want to hear why, Irene."

Irene watched Sherlock turn away and walk to the other side of the small 221B apartment living room, as her mouth formed a tense line and Sherlock's eyes hardened to ice.

She seemed to grow angrier, offended, as she stared at the cold man's back. She had thought she'd known a different man, back then in Karachi, or at least a different facet of the same invariably hard-minded man. And now he wouldn't even hear the words she had to say.

She glared at him as she strode forward through the few yards between the odd couple. She put a hand on his shoulder, not gently, and forced him around to look at her. Force is probably not the accurate description, considering he was a very tall man and she was a fairly slight woman. It's more likely that he, at least partly, _wanted_ to face her, hear the explanation.

"You think you know people, Sherlock, better than they can even know themselves. But what you continually fail to understand is that _I _am not like every person you analyze on the street. I'm more like-minded to you than I am to them, darling. I always have been."

The accurateness of the point conveyed in her brief speech and the quick-summoned intelligence and clarity in which she delivered it, especially in spite of her emotional state, impressed Sherlock. At first hearing them, at least, but ironically the man had always been far better at deducing others than having someone else read him so honestly. His rapidly turning mind was in a state of flux, trying to determine whether he should be impressed, turned on by her sharpness (which is the usual reaction), or unnerved and slightly offended by the truth. But he had never been one to mind the word's of others.

"You're trying to make me see that you did it for the same reasons I would have; it would be an entirely too human vulnerability, one which you weren't at first comfortable with sharing with anyone else, even one so involved in the matter like me. And once you had gained the resolve to tell me, you figured it would be too late, ill timing, especially once you heard about my supposed death, which you didn't believe for a second, I'm assuming."

Irene's eyes narrowed; she didn't like being forced with the truths of herself either, but she still nodded. He was right. Not unusual.

John was completely blind-sided. Try as he might, and the doctor's efforts were admirable seeing as he is undoubtedly more intelligent than Sherlock perceives, John could not puzzle together what the two brilliant, dark-haired persons were communicating to each other. He also realized, halfway through the conversation, that the two were wording their conversation consciously with the intent on rendering it useless to try to decode. Brilliant bastards.

"I understand, Irene," the way Sherlock said her name was noticed by Watson as entirely, uncharacteristically warm; he said the word with a familiarity that shocked Watson, like a unsettled, irate husband dealing with something similar to a wife, "But don't mistake that _sentiment_," he winced the word, "for implying that I'm okay with your actions."

The warning reminded Irene of her days at Catholic school when she was reprimanded by the principal. She rolled her eyes.

John was, at this point, extremely aggravated; his shock-induced silence was quickly coming to an end, "Will someone _please _tell me what is going on?"

The demand went without comment for the whole of two seconds.

Sherlock, too wrapped up in his own turmoil, which he was trying to mask, subsequently snapped at his friend, "Look at his f_ace_, Watson."

John Watson blinked. The only two males who he immediately considered was himself and Sherlock, but the man had not said 'your face' or 'my face', so….

John's eyes wandered to the infant in Irene's care. His military trained eyes carefully scanned the baby's facial features. He made a jumbled mental list: thick, raven curls, pale intelligent face, unnervingly aware sapphire eyes.

_No. _

The dawning hit John Watson like a tractor trailer, he almost physically felt a blow sink deep in his chest.

The impossible had happened; his best friend had managed to overcome his mental blocks and procreate. Actually, Watson had always hoped Sherlock had the potential. After all, no man wants his friends to be alone, even if said friend claimed not to be bothered by isolation. Humans need relationships. It's a fact of life John had learned as a very young man.

John swallowed, "So…I'm guessing you didn't name him Haymish."

"Actually, I did."

Despite it all, Irene's words made John smile.

Sherlock's eyebrows shot out of visibility, under his fringe of curls as he stared at his friend and the Woman.

John laughed at Sherlock's expression.

**A/n: **_So, I've been busy at driver's ed for the last week and have had so much inspiration, but literally almost no time. I wrote this very quickly and wanted to give it you guys for the wait. _


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